


Sympathy for the Devil

by chucks_prophet



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Feels, But That's Basically All My Stories, Castiel in the Bunker, Especially Dean because he's a sap, Grave digging, Happy Ending, Humor, Hunter Castiel, Internal Monologue, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, THATS RIGHT CAS KNOWS POP CULTURE REFERENCES, post-lucifer, sorry didn't mean to yell at you
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-08 12:18:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6854368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chucks_prophet/pseuds/chucks_prophet
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Dean, you don’t have to apologize for feeling uncomfortable.”</p><p>“But I do, Cas,” says Dean, boring more holes into Castiel’s seven-year-old suit. “It’s you, man. You’re my best friend; I shouldn’t have to feel any way around you.”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sympathy for the Devil

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by a dialogue prompt I saw on Pinterest: "Work through your hunger from now on!" And, I implore of you, how could I /not/ think of Dean?

Sympathy for the Devil

"No, that's it. You had _five_ cheeseburgers, and you're not even a freaking Kaonashi anymore! Work through your hunger from now on!"

"But Dean, it's so hard—"

"What's hard? Leading a human existence or digging graves?” barks Dean as he plows into yet another beer can. Damn gravediggers—the _real_ ones. They don’t know how good they have it to be pissing away a perfectly good Coors. “Because one day, someone will be digging yours, and that person will likely be yours truly, and I know for a fact what's dead doesn't always stay dead, so I don't wanna hear you griping the whole time about how the dirt's getting in your eyes or you'll be looking at the shovel scene from _My Bloody Valentine_."

Cas sticks his shovel into the ground with the heel of his foot. "Dean, are you sure it's me who needs the Snickers bar?"

Dean’s eyebrows crease. "What?" he balks. "Shut up, keep digging."

After his return, the brothers brought a disoriented Cas back to the Bunker. Over the last month, he’s healed in ways beyond the partial scope of human perception (at least according to Cas himself because Dean “didn’t understand”, being mostly human), but there’s still the part of Dean’s paternal instinct that wants to coddle Cas. It’s like wandering through a dry, hot savanna and trying _not_ to step on ostrich eggs. This isn’t something to tip-toe around; he knows that from Sam’s experience. So, going against every fiber in his body, he started treating Cas like a soldier of a much smaller war and enrolled Cas in Hunter’s Hogwarts.

This, digging graves, is something Dean can handle. Casting Ray Wise out of an undead vessel one-fifty soaking blood—a little harder.

“How’s Sam?” Cas asks as a clot of dirt passes over Dean’s shoulder. Salt, dirt, Dean will take anything as sign that the Devil’s off their backs for good. Or at least until after Dean dies again.

Their lives are so screwed up.

“Wouldn’t know,” Dean retorts. “Hasn’t texted back.”

“He will. He just needs time to recuperate.”

“Or a booty call.”

“You’re still funny.”

Dean’s eyebrow perks up. “You’re surprised?”

“No,” Cas responds as his oversized spoon slides against decades-old china, “you’re always going to be funny.”

Dean’s heart sinks a little. Even though he knows he’ll always be hiding behind a canned joke and remote-controlled laughter, even though he knows he’ll probably never get to say what’s buried in the catacombs of his mind, even though he knows he’ll always be trapped beneath a lager and a hard place, it still hurts.

The hunt finishes off in flames. Dean leans into it.

***

Cas is reading the encyclopedia of _Vampires: True Blood Hounds_ when a knock presents itself at his door.

Being outside of Lucifer’s smarmy grasp, it feels… well, _colder,_ that’s for certain. He’s not sure how to put it another way, but it’s almost as if nothing’s changed. Cas feels like he got slapped in a time capsule on an expressway to Hell and came back after an unsuccessful business trip. (Which, to be impartial, is every time he’s ever steps foot downstairs.) Crowley’s still a douche, Rowena’s still an _undecided_ douche, Sam’s still slaving away on his computer (notwithstanding the current new one that ghoul ripped him), and Dean…

Well, Dean’s still a mystery.

Or thinks he is anyway.

“Come in,” Cas calls.

Dean walks in with an air of purpose, but all that’s thrown away by the book Cas set aside for later reading. “That’s _one_ way to learn about safe sex,” he remarks.

“I guess it requires more than an angel blade to keep the real monsters away.”

Dean laughs the same way a Bulldog greets a house guest: just an exaggerated puff of air, “Yeah. STD’s are a bitch. But enough about Sam’s sex life,” says Dean, claiming a seat next to Cas on the foot of his bed. Then, he bounces on it a few times with a concerned look. “How come you don’t have memory foam in here?”

“Dean,” Cas says, trying not to smile. Dean’s predictability is more reliable than any appliance in the Bunker: “What is it you want to tell me?”

“How do you know I came in here to tell you something?” accuses Dean. “What, a guy can’t get a little room service? I mean, I’m not French, but I know how to fluff the hell out of a pillow.”

Cas bows his head. “Dean.”

Dean blows a sigh. “Alright, look, I’m sorry, you know—”

“Dean, it was my choice—”

“Cas,” Dean says, holding up a shaking hand. Dean _never_ shakes. Not even when he’s holding a machete. “Cas, just… let me finish.” Cas looks at him through lemon-filled eyes, but nods. “I’m sorry for how I’ve been acting. It’s just a weird adjustment for me, seeing you in one piece. I mean, I’m glad—hell, I guess now you could say I’m friggin’ _blessed_ , but I’m just not sure how to… I don’t know.”

Cas’s smile tugs a little harder. “You mean you’re not _always_ a hardass?”

“Oh my God, I’m trying to have a sincere, mono-e-mono conversation here.”

“You know mono means monkey, right?”

“That’s us, Cas,” retorts Dean, scrubbing his opposite hand over his face. He looks tired. The bean bags under his crusted emerald eyes are a light brown. His cheekbones are high, but his smile dangerously low. It’s not like he screamed for joy when Cas raised him from Perdition, but he laughed a lot easier. “You know, at least when you were human once. That’s what we are, the little… _hairless apes._ ”

Cas shifts his head to the floor, knowing how Dean takes to sympathy, and Cas’s face is smeared in it. “Dean, you don’t have to apologize for feeling uncomfortable.”

“But I do, Cas,” says Dean, boring more holes into Castiel’s seven-year-old suit. “It’s you, man. You’re my best friend; I shouldn’t have to feel _any_ way around you.”

“What do you mean?”

Dean freezes. Cas remembers Lucifer’s voice echoing across the walls of his imitation-Bunker: _He who hesitates… disintegrates._

Cas doesn’t want Dean to disintegrate. (At least not until he meets with a mortician.) “Dean?”

Dean’s definitely moving now: as far away from Cas as possible. “It’s nothing, Cas,” he says, nearly halfway to the door, “I’m just gonna go—”

“Wait, Dean,” Cas begs, latching onto his wrist. Even after all this time, his angel reflexes are still intact. Dean’s pupils are blown wide open, staring into Cas’s like they’re sucking him into a space-time continuum. Maybe they are. Cas has always gotten lost in Dean’s eyes. “Before you go, I need to tell you something.”

Cas yanks Dean’s arm until he’s on top of him. Dean catches himself with hands splayed next to Cas’s face. Cas can feel Dean’s heart licking his chest with every erratic _thump_. “Eat a Snickers,” he whispers, raising his other hand to cup Dean’s face and cover his mouth with his. He tastes better than a cheeseburger, that’s for sure. “Better?” he asks, earning a slow-spreading smile from Dean.

“Better.”

 

 

Yeah, they’re going to be okay.


End file.
